


flashbulbs of the pretty cameras

by lalalyds2



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, Hollywood AU, Spellcest, but we still tag it because that's how i do, except technically they're not siblings in this au, please give it a chance because you don't know all the facts, the facts are that i love it, y'all ready for an AU?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-05-30 16:42:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19407268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lalalyds2/pseuds/lalalyds2
Summary: Zelda Spellman was an actress of the dramatic.Highly renowned, highly refined.Zelda was an actress with Integrity.Except now she's doing a new movie.A horror movie.And she's co-starring with her arch nemesis: Hilda LangleyThe horrors never cease.





	1. what have we gotten ourselves into?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [winterhearts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterhearts/gifts).



> dedicated to cayley and sam, because i've been very Fite-y with them and it's not their fault.   
> and a Big shoutout to kate, because they gave me hilda's last name.   
> a million kisses and kudos to you babes  
> you make the world shiny <3

“Absolutely not.”

Zelda Spellman’s mouth hung agape, dark lipstick only half applied. She stared at Ambrose’s reflection in the mirror.

The glass practically vibrated with her outrage.

“You said you wanted to do something scary.” Ambrose cajoled, as only he knew how.

Having been in the Hollywood business for seven years, five of them with Zelda as his top client, Ambrose Perdomo knew this:

To get an actress to agree to a movie outside her comfort zone, you have to do one of three things.

  1. Logically stating the facts and benefits.  
  

  2. Bribing with the easy money (if it’s a bad movie), or the challenge (if it’s a good one).  
  

  3. The third was less pleasant and Ambrose didn’t want to use it unless he had to.



“I _said_ I wanted something _challenging_. Not running around in front of a camera in something as degrading as,” she shuddered in her silk robe. “A _horror_ movie.”

“It’s a psychological thriller,” he laughed, pushing her makeup and perfume to the side of her dressing table, plopping the screenplay right down in front of her.

She scanned the paper. A deeply unimpressed scoff.

“The Thirteen Witches of Greendale?” Zelda rolled her eyes.

People said this eye roll was one of the reasons Zelda had won multiple awards for her staged version of Hedda Gabler.

People were right.

“It sounds like an ejaculation of the patriarchy’s combined fear and lust over the independent woman.”

“It is, but it’s supposed to bring light on the subject. To start conversation about it.”

“And by that, you mean putting women in scantily clad outfits and then shaming her for the body she will not have power over until a man finds her desirable? You mean, even by showing how much toxic masculinity corrupts, we will simply reinforce the idea that _that_ is how it is? Is that the kind of conversation we’ll be part of? No thank you.”

Ambrose sighed deeply through his nose. Zelda was going to work herself into a tizzy and then she’d never agree to this movie.

It was time for the third option, even though it was underhanded and scuzzy.

“You’re getting stuck in the dramas, Zelda. People cry with you when they see you on screen now, but how soon until they start to yawn?”

Undermining an actress’s relevance was always a low blow. It hurt the trust between agent and actor. But it kept them all from becoming what they feared most.

Forgotten.

Zelda’s eyes sought his in the mirror, her hands steady as they reached up to pull pins and curlers from her hair. Resigned knowledge sat heavy in her gaze.

“How long is the contract?”

Ambrose tried to suppress his grin.

“Three months and another for a press junket.”

The following sigh was tired.

“Alright.”

Ambrose clapped his hands in victory, unable to contain his glee.

“Oh Z, you are not going to regret this, I guarantee.”

Zelda’s laugh was cynical, but not mean-spirited.

“You know better than to guarantee anything in this business.”

He just bit his upper lip, clasped hands pressed to his nose, failing to suppress the excitement he never seemed to lose.

“I can just feel it, this will be good.”

“Mmhmm. Now, get out. I have to finish getting ready.” She shooed him with her hands, gently herding him out of her dressing room.

He turned as she shoved him out the door, mind already whirring with the next steps to take.

“I’ll tell the press this is your next big thing, so be prepared to answer questions on the carpet tonight. Read the first five pages of that screenplay.”

“Yes, I know. I’ve done this a hundred times before.” She closed the door.

Opened it again to ask—

“Who are my costars?”

“Oh, uhh... Sabrina Ross. The Night sisters.”

“Always thought those three would be perfect as witches.”

“Right. And a few others, nobody important.” Ambrose tried to close the door back on himself.

His hurry alerted Zelda. She held it wide open, peered at him with that million-dollar gaze.

“Who else aren’t you telling me?”

“Um...” His eyes went sheepish.

Zelda went alert.

“Hilda Langley?”

The door shook its very frame as Zelda slammed it with all her might.

~*~

Zelda Spellman was the third generation of an entire institution of silver starlets.

Her father had been so prolific and ocean-eyed, even her acting school friends had swooned over him.

Her mother had been so glamorous, so electric onstage, it was said the president once saw her perform and proposed right after in the dressing room. 

They both had been married. They both had slept together anyway.

Father said he would have minded more if she _hadn’t_ slept with the president. He had also been having an affair with the maid.

The Spellman family was caught up in a tradition of drama, and Zelda had grown up in the thrall of it.

But that wasn’t all she’d grown up with.

She’d also grown up with Miss Hilda Langley, whom she detested more than anyone else in all of Hollywood.

Hilda and Zelda’s mothers had been friends.

The kind of friends who didn’t get along as well as they pretended.

The kind of friends who went to each other’s houses for every holiday and every party and passive aggressively insulted the host to their face.

The kind of friends who sent their children off to play and secretly spy on each other, figuring out just what scandal to tell their mothers at the end of the day.

Paparazzi worked fast. Children worked faster.

Hilda always seemed so innocent to it all, chattering on about her life as if Zelda had asked, going through Zelda’s things as if it were her own room, showing everything in her actual room to Zelda.

It was like having a little sister you had to see multiple times a year.

It was infuriating.

It wasn’t till Zelda had gone to an acting school in New York that she’d finally stopped running in all the same social circles.

And when she’d returned to Hollywood invigorated to use every acting technique she’d learned on the industry — Chekhov, Stanislavski, Meisner, Adler, even Strasberg — she’d come home to discover Hilda had studied in London and was already two movies ahead of her.

One of them had even won an award.

Best comedy. What a joke.

And at that ceremony that Zelda had gone to with her parents, Hilda had embraced her, warm and bright and genuinely happy to see Zelda back.

She had smiled and held her little trophy and told Zelda she’d missed her.

Something ignited that night.

Zelda could not stop looking at Hilda. She’d grown curvier, and brighter.

That little wiggly girl who’d gone so far as to steal of one Zelda’s headbands when they were little was gone, mutated into some beaming debutante.

Still so wide-eyed, still so innocent, and yet...

When she caught Zelda looking, she’d blushed and looked right back.

Later that night, Zelda had kissed her on the cheek and said it was good to be back, and that she’d missed her too.

Even later that same night, Zelda had stolen Hilda’s award.

They’ve been rivals ever since.

~*~

The cameras flashed bright and blinding on the red carpet, a cacophony of photographer’s shouts of “Miss Spellman, look here!” or “Over here!” 

Zelda smiled and felt a migraine coming on. But she was wearing Givenchy and emerald gems — now was _not_ the time to frown.

Once she stepped away from the cameras, pop-piece journalists and magazine personalities bombarded her with questions, and then it became a different standard of craze.

Yes, this movie was hard to film, but so rewarding. Stories like this need to be told.

No, there will be no sequel. Some things are better left wanting.

Yes, there are big things coming up, things never done before. At least by her.

She went vague after that, dithering over details.

She _hadn’t_ read those first five pages of the screenplay.

One interviewer was pesky, unwilling to give up the subject, asking, “Well, at least tell us who you’ll be working with.”

And then, because the universe either hated her or simply loved to throw exasperating things in her lap, Hilda Langley herself strolled by. She was wearing Helen Rose and diamonds.

Zelda wanted to rip them from her throat.

Instead, she smiled, held an arm out in a welcoming gesture, and Hilda immediately walked into her as if they were great friends.

Hilda was warm under silk.

“Why,” Zelda gushed to the interviewer, jiggling Hilda’s shoulder and purposefully mussing the starched line of her stiff sleeves. “I’m working with my dearest, _oldest_ friend, Hilda Langley, of course. Isn’t that right, Hilda?”

At first looking a little like deer in the headlights, Hilda blinked. Then — 

“Yes, and I am so excited to work with you! We haven’t worked together in ages, not since you _stole_ my _fiancé_.”

An awkward pause.

“Ah, yes, I remember that from the **_movie_**. Our characters were just awful to each other, weren’t they?”

Hilda laughed then, like a tall-reaching sunflower or a dash of sugared vanilla, and the interviewers all chuckled in reflex.

The poor folks couldn’t tell she was acting.

Zelda smiled weakly, and started to act too.

“Nevertheless I’m so glad to be collaborating with you soon. I’m sure you’ll bring the _lightheartedness_ the movie needs.”

Hilda saw her jab at her film reel (it mostly contained comedies, though many were awarded, or featured her as the mediocre and jilted bride).

Eyes narrowed, smile stayed plastered on.

“And I’m sure you’ll bring the _tears_.”

Zelda’s smile went a little crooked.

“I’m sure I will.”

“Well, yay! This will be such fun.”

“An absolute delight.”

Soon, the interviewers scampered off to grill other actors. Zelda let go of Hilda as if stung.

“If you steal my scenes there will be hell to pay.” Zelda hissed underneath her breath.

Her smile stayed on, her face serene.

Her eyes promised the threat of violence.

“I won’t have to,” Hilda said through grit teeth.

Also serene. Also venomous.

“By the time the audience wakes up from your nap-inducing monologue, it will be my scene anyway.”

Zelda was about to growl, or truly tell Hilda where to shove it, when she saw Ambrose gesturing.

It was time for them to go in and see her movie. And then party.

And then get very drunk.

“Just behave,” Zelda warned, slipping her arm through Hilda’s and leading her into the theatre.

They beamed for the last remaining cameras.

“And remember,” her jaw barely moved as she talked and smiled, and the cameras flashed. “We’re not friends. We’re never going to be.”

Hilda smiled, and it was honey covered and lovely and false.

“Fine by me. Just know that if you try to steal _this_ fiancé,” her head nodded towards the man she’d publicly announced she was marrying next year.

“I will end you.”

Zelda grinned, for once completely real.

“We’ll see about that.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a HUGE thank you to Kate  
> you are the best Beta (although that always makes me think of beta fish)  
> and just all around Great  
> thank you bunches!

The thing about show business was that it moved very fast.

Nobody slept or ate or existed without constant motion.

Most never slept or ate regardless.

Sharks in still water.

And that was why, at a time before even the birds had the audacity to sing, Zelda was stumbling into the studio’s upper room for the movie’s first read-through.

Sunglasses pushed up and hiding a hangover, she squinted in the self-made darkness, trying to find her name place around the long tables. 

Young Sabrina Ross waved her over, hair so blonde it was practically white bouncing as she motioned Zelda closer.

On eggshell steps, Zelda tried to look dignified as the world pitched to one side during her trek across the room.

“Ms. Spellman, can I just say I am a huge fan.” Sabrina gushed, going sheepish at Zelda’s wince and lowering her volume to headache-withstandable decibels. “I’ve seen all your films, and I do mean all of them.”

If Zelda’d had less of a jackhammer going on around her frontal lobe, she would have raised her brow.

Some of her films were quite scandalous for a sixteen-year-old’s eyes.

Sabrina must have seen her train of thought because her cheeks went bright pink.

“I just meant — I didn’t — you’re _talented_ , I’m a fan... _yeah_.”

Something in the young actress’s internally screaming gaze made Zelda chuckle, wincing as she eased her sunglasses off.

“Well, thank you very much. I do appreciate it.”

Sabrina’s shoulders relaxed a fraction and she breathed for the first time since Zelda sat down.

“I must confess,” she leaned in to whisper. “I’m a little nervous. I’ve never worked with such a large cast before, much less Faustus Blackwood.”

And even though it sent spikes through her brain, Zelda couldn’t help but laugh. She’d known the director for years — knew underneath the money and bravado there was a skinny, _pretentious_ little artist. 

“Oh I wouldn’t worry about him. The man saw Christopher Marlowe _once_ and decided to completely reinvent himself. Faustus isn’t even his real name. It’s Frank.”

Sabrina giggled, hid it behind clasped hands as other actors flooded into the room.

“Really?”

“Really. The man is as overdramatic as a squalling toddler.”

Said man looked over at the two actresses. Zelda just winked.

As places were called, the door opened and a heavenly scent of fresh pastries and lemons wafted in, filling the room and tickling the nose till the mouth unwittingly watered.

Hilda made her entrance, basket of goodies on both arms, smiling like a daisy.

Zelda’s glower could darken the sun.

“Good morning, everyone.” Hilda sang in that chirpy British accent she’d refused to get rid of even though she hadn’t lived there in at least a decade.

She was chipper, as though last night she hadn’t stayed up just as late as Zelda, hadn’t drank as much as Zelda, wasn’t as hungover as Zelda.

The little liar.

“You’re late.” Zelda said curtly.

Hilda just simpered.

“I think you’ll find I’m right on time.”

“Which is late. You should know better.”

“Well I had to bring refreshments. It’s something I always do.”

Zelda looked to her left.

Stacks upon stacks of assorted breakfast foods sat untouched at a table against the wall.

Hilda looked too.

“Oh, those are store bought. They can’t compare to fresh, homemade scones.”

Faustus, enticed by the descriptions, leaned to where Hilda was standing, poking his head into the basket.

“What kind?”

“Lemon.”

He took one, and his moan at the first bite had the rest of the cast scrambling to grab one too.

Zelda glared as Hilda all but stuck her tongue out at her.

Immature child.

“Delicious, Hilda.” Faustus said, crumbs sticking to the corner of his mouth. “But we are about to begin read through, so if you would sit down so we can carry on...”

Hilda nodded, smiled as people hastened to snatch a pastry before things started, and then sat straight down next to Zelda.

Lemon and vanilla flooded Zelda’s senses.

“Would you like one?” Voice sickeningly sweet, Hilda held a pastry out on a white napkin.

Zelda ignored her offering.

“What _I_ would like is for you to find a different seat.”

“Can’t. See?”

Her French-tipped finger pointed to the name places.

Zelda Spellman. Hilda Langley.

Names written in ink and on paper — might as well be in stone.

Zelda resisted the urge to knock Hilda’s over. 

And then introductions started, everyone stating their names and roles in a circle as though they were all little children in summer camp. 

Zelda knew most of them. Wasn’t interested to know anyone else.

As they started reading through the script, Zelda’s headache lifted slowly, words becoming clear as the actress in her took over. 

Unfortunately for her, as the hangover abated, hunger struck. Her stomach growled rather loudly.

Hilda pushed the scone closer.

She glared. Hilda shrugged as though it didn’t matter.

The corner of her eye twitching, she took a bite. Swallowed back a swoon.

The dough was puffy and crisp, the citrus glaze sweet with a delicious bite of tart, the crunch satisfying against the teeth.

“It’s burnt.” Zelda lied around a full mouth.

Hilda just smirked.

~*~

As the read through wrapped up and lunch approached, Zelda stood.

Announced there would be a dinner party at her house this evening. All cast and crew invited, of course.

Excited murmurs broke out immediately. Zelda’s house was nearly as large as her career, as lavish as her closet.

Her mother had thrown parties of renown. Zelda was no different.

Hilda sat where she was, looking up at Zelda with some inscrutable expression.

Zelda hoped it was internal alarm.

“You’re throwing a dinner party?” Hilda asked, brow finally lifting in skepticism. “That’s rather big of you. Sudden too.”

Zelda grinned, all saccharine and victorious.

“On the contrary. It’s something I _always_ do.”

She could see the way Hilda sucked in her cheek, probably biting it something fierce, before Hilda stood. She grabbed both of Zelda’s crossed arms, hauling her close to kiss her cheek.

The lemon vanilla smell washed over her again.

“Well fantastic! Just dandy. I can’t wait to see what you’ve pulled off — I mean, _planned_.”

“Almost as good as baked scones.”

They’re not smiling now, so much as baring their teeth through lipsticked mouths.

“Can’t wait.”

Hilda let her go.

Zelda caught Faustus’ gaze over the blonde’s shoulder as the little twit fiddled with something in her purse.

“Are you getting lunch with everyone?” Hilda asked.

“Oh. No,” Zelda preened. “I have a meeting with our director.”

“Huh.”

“Indeed.”

Hilda’s eyes narrowed, hazel reading the connotations within sentences, and ultimately not liking what they deciphered.

“Well, have fun.”

“Oh, I _will_.”

And if Zelda relished Hilda’s blush of scandal, well, it didn’t matter, because she was already out the door.

~*~

“Really though, you have some nerve.” Zelda stated as she pulled her nylons a bit more snuggly up her thigh. “Sitting me right next to that, that— “

“Fellow co-star?” Faustus finished with the rest of the buttons on his shirt. “With whom you share most of your scenes?”

“And that’s another thing!” Zelda zipped up the side of her skirt. “You know we don’t get on.”

“But you two have brilliant chemistry. You can’t deny you’re well-tuned to reacting immediately to what the other’s doing.”

“Irritation is _not_ acting.”

Zelda perched herself more primly on Faustus’s desk, reaching down to open the side drawer and pull a cigarette from his private case.

He patted her knee once, reaching forward with his silver Zippo to light her cigarette. She puffed near the flame twice before pulling away.

“I think you will be marvelous.”

She took a deep drag.

“You only flatter me because you have to.”

He laughed at that.

“I trust you both will both be professionals. I, for one, am very much looking forward to your scene in the woods.”

Zelda scoffed, pushing off the desk and swatting him with her purse.

“You would say that, you filthy man. You just want it because we’ll all be naked.”

He shrugged, eyes wandering the planes of Zelda’s form as though he hadn’t seen all of it just ten minutes ago.

“Can you blame me?”

“Can and have. Oh, and little miss Langley doesn’t do nudity, I hope you know.”

Faustus leaned back in his chair, as though he’d cracked a big secret. Zelda’s gaze narrowed.

“No... How’d you coax her into it? She wouldn’t do it even when Old Man Marcus practically threw millions into her lap.”

He shrugged.

“I’m much more charming.”

She huffed. That was her mistake, because then Faustus’ self-satisfied grin turned full on smug.

“Oh come now, Zelda... surely you’re not upset about this? It’s good for the movie.”

“It’s good for your ego,” she sniffed.

His hands clasped before him as he teased.

“Worried your tits may finally have some competition?”

Her glare spoke volumes, but still she felt the need to add, “As if.”

Perhaps a little too emphatically.

She threw his tie at his face because it wouldn’t stop doing that thing a little too much like laughing at her.

“I hate you.”

He just took it and pulled it tight around his neck.

“Just play nice, Zelda. I think this movie will do nicely for you both.”

She huffed. Took another drag.

“It better.”

~*~

Hilda had been right — the dinner party _was_ a last-minute event. But even still, it was as glamorous as advertised.

A small jazz band crooned on the back patio, serenading guests under the moonlight, dulcet tunes floating up and over a shimmering pool.

Waitstaff in white carried silver platters of champagne in crystal flutes and hors d'oeuvres with tiny toothpicks.

Zelda wore deep green and gold embellishments, chatting softly and laughing lightly and touching shoulders as only a hosting goddess could.

Hilda had yet to show her face. It was both a relief and an irritant.

Zelda certainly didn’t _want_ her here, but how dare she _not_ attend?

She ticked her fingers against her wineglass, preferring a dark cabernet to the lighter bubbly.

Shirley Jackson, an actress just below Hilda on Zelda’s hate list, blathered on about her latest gig she did in Georgia.

Zelda drank in gulps and craned her neck for any flash of blonde.

Even if it was only for competition, Hilda was still more stimulating than Shirley. The brunette constantly dithered on, and only starred in b-movies, and always imagined she was as high up on the Hollywood totem as the Spellman.

Plus, the woman was just phony. 

Zelda was about to make some flimsy excuse and escape to the kitchen when she caught sight of her longtime rival.

Hilda was in white, deep V-ed and flowy. Sandy tan skin peeking through wave swishing fabrics, Hilda looked an ocean. A summertime of beaches and solar rays.

Her fiancé trailed after her like a lost puppy. Dr. Cee, meteorologist, resident weatherman on the local station.

Zelda frowned.

Made her now real excuses to Shirley and strolled as casually as you like up to Hilda.

They embraced, because they were the oldest of friends. And because everyone’s eyes were on them.

Hilda was warm, smelling like jasmine instead of lemon, but still vanilla.

“Sorry we’re late,” Hilda says breezily. “This one couldn’t find the right shoes.”

Cee smiled as she gestured at him in fond exasperation, shrugging congenially.

“What can I say? I take a while to get ready.”

“And yet I only took a few minutes.”

Hilda nudged him gently with her elbow as she teased.

Zelda discreetly rolled her eyes.

“Well it’s easier for you,” Cee flirted. “You’re already perfect.”

Zelda suppressed a gag.

Thankfully she was saved by the dinner bell before she had to comment on the revolting display of affection in front of her.

She took her place at the head of the table, made her toast, and then dinner was served.

~*~

On the whole, it was a successful affair.

Only a few hiccups (they’d nearly run out of shrimp, someone spilled something on her good tablecloth, and Hilda had somehow found a seat next to her) but other than that, dinner was peaceful.

Filled with laughter, small talk about lives and the stock market, everyone seemed to get along.

Except Hilda had this pesky tendency to reach things as Zelda reached for them. Her hands were soft as they bumped Zelda’s skin.

Hilda often got to things first.

And Hilda also had the annoying little habit of undermining _everything_ Zelda said.

Because “Yes, I love Chekhov’s work,” would be met with “Oh, I dabbled in _The Cherry Orchard_ between sets with the London Shakespeare Company.”

Because “Yes, the Met’s new exhibit just took my breath away” was combatted by “Oh, I saw that piece in full-size at the Louvre.”

And so, it went.

After dinner, Hilda somehow always seemed to be in the same room as Zelda.

A beaming, talkative space, constantly followed by her fiancé-shadow. She was a spotlight stealer whose laugh rang through Zelda’s ears and she didn’t seem to mind any of Zelda’s barbs whatsoever.

It was infuriating.

She finally went outside for air and another glass of wine.

Only, Hilda was there too.

“You can’t be escaped, can you?” Zelda asked sardonically, pushing a strand of hair back as the wind blew it in her face. Hilda shrugged, staring out at the pool.

“I was out here first.”

“Where’s the boyfriend?”

“ _Fiancé_. And he’s inside, getting me a drink.”

Zelda took a long swig of hers.

“And aren’t you lucky. You’ve gotten what every woman wants.”

Zelda, when verging on drunk, would clip her tones, growing more precise, more prone to violent tempers.

Hilda knew this, and so warily asked, “And what’s that?”

“A servant.”

Hilda laughed. Zelda’s eyes on her were piercing their judgement.

“You truly are something else.” She said. “That’s a terrible joke.”

“I wasn’t joking.”

Hilda’s lips pursed at that, finally staring at Zelda instead of out on the water. She looked at her as if Zelda was some great mystery, a master puzzle she’d never been able to solve instead of the woman she’d known since early childhood.

“Why would you say that then? Cee loves me.”

Perhaps it was only because of the drink or because of the night of a continually bruising pride, but Zelda opened her mouth and nasty flew out.

“Does he, or does he just love what you can do for him?”

Hilda’s cheeks grew warm and bright pink.

“Not that it’s _any_ of your business, but Cee has always behaved a perfect gentleman—”

“I didn’t mean _that_ ,” Zelda took a step closer, enjoying that little prissy Hilda was finally getting frazzled.

Finally on the defense.

“But think about it. You’re a Warner Brothers’ baby. He’s a local anchor at a weather station. Marrying you is instant star currency he wouldn’t get anywhere else. Unless,” she snorted, giggling on alcohol and atrocious thought.

“Unless he wanted to marry _Shirley_.”

Hilda crossed her arms, a shield of defense as she scowled.

“I’m not sure why you’re being so hideous, but I don’t have to take it. I’m going back inside.”

As she turned to go, Zelda sensed a victory.

Unfortunately for them both, she’d never learned to let it go at that.

“Yes, head on back to your servant.”

Hilda froze, turned on her heels, marched up into Zelda’s face, close enough she could practically smell the cherry tart they’d had for dessert.

“You’re drunk. And Cee loves me.”

“Because you buy him.”

“At least it’s better than you can say.”

“What?”

And then it’s Hilda who holds triumphant.

“At least _I_ don’t sleep with directors for my roles, I—”

She didn’t get to finish that sentence, because Zelda’d thrown the rest of her cabernet in Hilda’s face.

She gaped, red dripping into her mouth, down the valley of her dress, staining the white a dark crimson.

In Zelda’s quickly growing stupor, she marveled it looked a little like blood.

“Ooh,” she coos in mock sympathy. “That’ll leave a stain.”

And then two soft, French-tipped hands were hard on her shoulders and she was falling backwards into the pool.

**Author's Note:**

> just a warning: this is not fully plotted and i am a slow writer.   
> please bear with, and i will write as fast as i can, i promise  
> i'm also always a slut for comments, so those are appreciated as well ;p   
> xx


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